Duke Kirsanov and my thanks to him: A memoir.

An imaginative composed by Isabella (Year 10) and a former student in the Writer’s Collective creative writing course. 

I never knew my grandfather very well. All I ever knew of the man was that we had the same eyes, (according to my great auntie Polina), and that he lived in a peculiarly designed dome hut in northern Ireland. Truly, I did want to know more, but my father wasn't a family man. So I just made due with what I knew. I wore an ugly black mourning frock the night I found his old video tape. Made me feel like some of those olden days widows.

Have you ever been to a funeral for a man you barely knew, in a family like mine? Goodness, it's awkward. Suddenly everyone is crying and telling stories, when just last month they were whining about how they didn’t get enough money in his will. Mourning is funny like that. One day you'll want to never hear their voice again, the next you're praying for one last I love you.

Bratty little teenage me salvaged through a box of his old belongings. They weren't exactly mine, but my father didn't seem to want them, so there was no harm done, I assumed. In the very bottom of the slightly soggy cardboard box, was a jewellery box, containing..one of those chunky old people tapes. very..colourful, I suppose, nothing pretty. Next to that, was one of those old box TVs, pretty. Pretty ugly. And finally, a map of Europe and the Middle East, with some ink blots I
couldn't tell was just spilt ink or not.

Mundane. Who cares?

I could see why my father took no interest. Nothing of value at all! He likes valuables, because valuables turn into money, and, I'm not too sure why, he always liked money an awful lot. Never got the appeal, but anyway. I wasn't stupid, and consequently, put two and two together, and after an hour of struggle I inserted the chunky old person tape in the fat TV (which likely carried over some prehistoric illness like polio into my room.) And Immediately, a black and white video began.

A man's face popped up. He looked almost elderly but not quite, and sat on a fancy vintage leather chair, which I could only imagine was a lovely shade of mahogany. The man stood completely still, and completely silent, for around 10 seconds. I thought for a moment this was some demonic ring
style tape, and should tear it from the ugly old box tv and drench it in holy water before he crawled out of the TV and killed me and everybody I loved. But just when I was about to, he spoke. His voice was gravelly, but comforting. Familiar, he held a small book like it was his lifeline. This is what the man said, or at least what i can recall:

“Dear viewers, this following entry is a fragment of many diary entries I scribed during my time as the nationally despised Duke Kosovic's personal assistant from 1947 to 1956. It is essential therefore that I state for my own safety that I did not favour the man anymore than any proud working class citizen of Russia, and that, during the time of my employment, or at least majority of it, I wanted to see the man dead.

That being said, this particular encounter never seemed to leave my mind, and I find myself strangled with a funny mixture of unwarranted guilt and worry every moment this isn't shared. As if the man’s very ghost had returned to torment me one last time, just for old times sake.”

The man paused, and chuckled to himself fondly, shaking his head, before continuing.

“And so, here is what I wrote. I present to you, a brief description of my years serving Duke Kirsanov and my thanks to him.”

“December 12, 1956. Putrid. Putrid is that man! I cannot handle this any longer. If it wasn't for my faithful upbringing I would have thrown my cursed body off the top of the peak of saint Petersburg’s the saviour on spilled blood decades ago! At least I would have died with architectural taste! Here, I believe I will just die of misery.

That old hag who offered me this job promised the chance to travel. Travel! I don't know about you, but when I imagine travelling, I certainly do not imagine dragging around the luggage of a spoiled brat who just so happened to make it to adulthood! Look at me, how foolish I was to believe the revolution got rid of those sorts of men, the rich kind. Clearly it did not. I'm 20 years old and the man gives me grey hairs! Tomorrow we leave from London (thank God, I cannot say that I am a fan of the English), and venture north. Ireland.
Wonderful. As far as I'm aware, nothing happens in Ireland. Open a newspaper. See? Nothing about Ireland. I'm not sure where I would rather be at the moment, melting down to flesh and bone as this new war starves us, or here, slaving away for a bratty middle aged man. Goodnight, sir journal. I sincerely hope I pass away in my sleep.”

The man then looked up from the book. Even through the static and black of white of the screen I could distinctly notice a strained feeling of helplessness in his eyes. He looked lonely. I knew how that felt, what that looked like. I wanted to reach through the screen and beg him to tell me what was wrong, but I had the lingering instinct he was about to indirectly tell me. Another completely silent and still 10 seconds passed, but my heart was too busy trying to reach into his that i did not
realise. The man spoke again, and I was so deep in thought, in desperate lonely understanding, it made me flinch.

“I am quite fond of this day.” 

He muttered tenderly. His gaze was then adjusted to face the camera, and I felt his loneliness bore into mine again.

“Liam. My son. I pray to God you will somehow watch this. Liam, I was no father to you. No, not at all. No father at all. I loved your mother so much that when I lost her I forgot the most beautiful thing she ever gave me. You never knew her, I know, and I also know that earlier, I said that I decided to record this tape for the sake of old Duke Kirsanov’s ghost. That is true, but I also recorded it in the hopes that you would watch it. If you are not Liam, I apologise for introducing you to my miserable life.”

The poor old man chuckled to himself again. I was not Liam, of course. My father was. I did not care to think about it at that moment. I was hooked. I needed to know more about this man, who if I wasn't sure before, I was sure now, was my now dead grandfather.

“December 13, 1956.

We arrived in Northern Ireland yesterday.

As usual, the old rich Duke Kirsanov had a nice long yell at me for forgetting to pack a pair of his silk bathrobes (he owns 28 and insisted I pack them all). But unlike usual, it was all just as if his voice were something trivial you wouldn't notice, like the rain and wind in autumn. It turns out the reason we ventured from cosy old Saint Petersburg to here all the way across Europe, was to escort his studying daughter back from a rather humble educational establishment here in Ireland. I think that all speaks for itself.”

The man, the man I now surely knew to be my grandfather, looked up again. He smiled with such nostalgia, my inexperienced teenage self suddenly felt I understood what it felt to fall in love, when in reality the only relationship I had had was in preschool for two days. My grandfather began to cough a harsh dry cough, the type that gives you a sore throat for a month. He shut the book. I panicked. I think I was actually on the verge of hyperventilating. Why did he shut the book? I needed to know more. I needed to know more now.

“Uhm...ahem. I believe it is best I continue this all in a later tape. Tomorrow I shall record again. Best of days to you.”

And just like that. Over. The tape finished.
As soon as it stopped I ripped it from the TV. The edge of the tape read in messy, quick writing:
‘Journal readings. Tape 1 of 5.’